Campbell's Soup cans
by furturtle
Summary: So this is part of a collection of work where i am basing the story off of a work of art. This was inspired by Andy Warhol's "Campbell's Soup" series. It's only supposed to be related to stranger things in style in that i wanted it to feel very rustic much like a Wes Anderson movie. I wanted there to be some undertones of consumerism propaganda. i hope you like it, Please Review


It was seven years since the collapse of modern society and the war that followed it lasted four years. The wealthy classes continued with their greed as they grew into larger corporations and the lower class continued to buy. As the lower class continued to buy, the population continued to grow, and the wealthy collected more from their new customers. Which of course did not sit well with the politicians and officials that had finally agreed on one thing, the wealthy had become too rich and ran more than what they had control of.

Fynn's breath was heavy as he ran for his life. The kindling rustled under his feet. He screamed as thorns and sticks scraped his feet and cut his legs. He only looked back once in a while but he was set on out running them. He was coming close to a clearing where the timber had burned from the war. Stopping to catch his breath, he saw a abandoned car with the tires removed. Loud popping from a powerful firearm made him look before jumping inside.

He began to tend to his wounds starting with his feet. The blood dripped onto the floor, he ripped a piece of cloth from his hospital gown. He hissed in pain as the blood seeped through the thin cloth. He wiped away the scuff marks before tending the the scrapes on his legs. A loud roar shook the rusted car. He peeked out to see a large luxury jet above him.

He looked around the car for something useful, a weapon perhaps. With not even as much as a crowbar, Flynn swung open the door and begun to walk in the same direction.

A few miles from the car stood a, single, old style home with a large porch, painted a fading yellow with a white trim. He walked to the door, upon it being locked, he went to the first window. With all of his force, he formed a fist and punched at the glass. The glass seemed to laugh at his attempt as barely shook the house that could have been the porch settling.

Grunting, he clawed to the underside of the porch and found a large rock. With a screaming hurl, he shattered the glass window. He was careful not to step on the broken glass. He found himself in a dining room which led into the kitchen. The walls were plastered with a very outdated floral wallpaper that had to be as old as the house itself. The white appliances were permanently covered with a layer of dust and grime. On the other side of the wall was a living room that seemed to look just as old and dusty a velvet green couch took most of the space. Fynn walked to the matching recliner to find a large gray cat curled up in the center. The collar read "Jumba". He kneeled to see the old cat's rib cage, from owners that never came home to feed him. He reached out to pet the cat and realized he wasn't breathing Wiping his hand on the hospital gown, he scanned the rest of the room. There was a old TV mounted on the wall and pots that held brown leaves.

The kitchen and the living room had reminded him of stories his grandfather told him about growing up in a small town in Oregon. Fynn's grandfather died three years ago. He lived with his grandfather ever since his parents died in the crossfire of the war.

He followed the stairs up to the other rooms. To the right there was a room decorated for a young girl. To the left there was a slightly larger room with dark mahogany furniture and red bedding. Across from the bed was a small bathroom and a closed door. He open the door to find a large closet. On one side there women's clothes and the other was mens. Fynn had found a pair of Levis that were baggy on his slender body but they would do. He also found a simple faded red shirt that had never been worn. When he tried to pull the shirt out a long white box fell to the floor, inside was a large hunting rifle.

Fynn brought the rifle and set it by the door. He went back into the kitchen and realized he hadn't eaten in three days. He began looking in the cupboards but all there was were pans, plates, utensils, and more tupperware and storage containers than one knows what to do with. Fynn avoided the fridge at all cost for the smell coming from it, this house would not of had power for years. Next to the fridge there was a large door that looked like it went to another room. When he had opened it there seemed to be endless amount of food: sugar, breakfast cereals, chips, snack cakes, flour, sugar, and pasta. He turned to the other side of the pantry to see the entire wall was purely canned goods: vegetables, tuna, meats, beans, fruits, and every type of soup from Campbell's.

He picked a can of stew and grabbed a fork. As he ate he started to wonder more about the family that had lived there. He had imagined them to be a family that lived just before the war; just as him and his parents were.

"Honey? We should call someone to get that faucet fixed" the husband said coming down the stairs.

His wife was over the stove stirring a pot of soup.

"If we do call someone, let's have him check the water tank and the electricity too." She said, "It'll be expensive but if the war that's their threatening is true, I'm worried that it might come our way. We have enough food but it's best to check the water."

The husband gave a grunt to his wife as he stepped Into the living room where their daughter sat on the floor watching a cartoon while petting Jumba the cat.

"Hey sweetheart," he said to the daughter, "why don't you go help momma set the table."

The daughter let out a sigh as she got up. The cat raced for his spot on the recliner so that he wouldn't be disturbed.

Fynn's daydream was interrupted by a bright headlight shining through the window. He went to the living room where the glass was still intact and saw a man with dark sunglasses still in his shiny silver car, so clean that you could see a perfect reflection of the house in the hood.

Fynn raises his middle finger with the rest of his hand in a fist to the vehicle. The man started the engine. Fynn picked up the rifle and went to the broken kitchen window. The silver vehicle had begun to turn around. He fired three shots until the car turned around completely and drove off.

He put on a pair of the man's shoes and walked to the back of the house where there was extra timber from the porch. He grabbed a few nails and a hammer. He first boarded up the window with the broken glass. He then sealed the other widows and the door.

Fynn pressed the button on the side of the blocky TV mounted on the wall, it was at least 2 decades older than anything he had worked with before. Most televisions now were projected or as thin as paper. He laid on the couch as it was searching for a channel to connect to.

"And in tonight's news," an anchor with a deep voice said, "17 year order Fynn R. Yerganian escaped official's custody on Sunday from St. August mental hospital.. Authorities had responded to believe this young man is a great danger to anyone and society as a whole."

His picture of him in the hospital gown flashed on the screen.

Fynn looked up with a smile, "Hey, would you look at that."

"Authorities highly advise not to approach or interact with this young man. He was in St. August mental ward for rebelling against officials." The anchor man continued, "If anyone has any information on Mr. Yerganian you are expected to call the police. This is a very urgent matter, if you are caught helping Mr. Yerganian or refuse to give information, you will be prosecuted."

Fynn stared at the ceiling listening to the anchor report about stocks and sports until his eye closed.

While he slept, sparkling silver cars and iron trucks crept towards the house. An army of men gathered there chain and tools. They started by wrapping the white porch with heavy metal chain. Then they did the same to the doors and widows until the entire front side reflected their head lights.

At the peak of dawn, the men grew restless; they honk and reved their engines. One man went to the porch and rattled the chain. "Come out Fynn," he screamed. "It's time for you to surrender."

Fynn woke up to the man screaming. He ran to the attic and watched from the window.

The man answered his silence "Suit yourself?" he signaled the the men in the trucks who started their engines and slowly started to pull back.

Fynn could feel the wooden support break in under him. He pressed his back to the back wall as he heard the house give.

The attic was quite. Suddenly a loud boom broke the attic lock. Fynn started to scream, he knew there was nowhere else to run. A strong man grabbed Fynn my the ankle. Tears rolled down Fynn's face as he try to kick himself free. Without flinching the man dragged him down the stairs. Fynn body hit the ground, bruising his ribs. He continued to screamed as he his hands glide across the dining room. His body hit the rubble, his face scraped the broken wood. Fynn was picked up by his arm and thrown into the silver vehicle.


End file.
